The Colors of All the Cattle

by Alexander McCall Smith

  * * *

  —

  YET MMA RAMOTSWE barely recognised him when he came into the office later that morning, leaning for support on a woman of about her own age. He moved slowly, with a curious gait, taking each step gingerly, as if feeling for a floor that was moving unpredictably beneath him. He was wearing dark glasses, which would have made recognition difficult, even without the damage that had clearly been done to the face. Something had rendered this lopsided, the mouth pulled down sharply on one side and twisted on the other into a set grimace. The imbalance was reflected in the jaw, which sagged badly and was covered in scar tissue.

  The woman looked about her anxiously, first at Mma Ramotswe and then at Mma Makutsi. “This is the right place, is it, Mma?” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “This is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency?”

  It was the man who answered. “Yes, this is the place, Constance, because I can see who this lady is. This is Precious Ramotswe, I think.”

  Mma Ramotswe had had the time to recover from her shock. Rising from her chair, she crossed the room to stand before the visitors. She reached out and took his hand, at the same time dropping a knee in an old-fashioned curtsy. That was ancient habit—something she had not done for many years, not since childhood, perhaps, when it had been the way to greet a much-respected elder. Now it came back, instinctively, naturally—an echo of a Botswana that had not quite disappeared in a world of modern informality.

  They voiced the traditional greeting, and then, when he took off the dark glasses, the man smiled. The smile came through the distorted face, a light from somewhere within.

  “Dr. Marang,” she said. “It is so many years—so many, Rra.”

  His voice was thickened, but the articulation was clear enough.

  “You were just a girl, I think. Not very old at all.”

  She nodded. “That’s right, Rra.”

  He turned to the woman beside him. “You won’t remember my daughter, Constance. She lived with her grandmother much of the time and so wasn’t in Mochudi a great deal.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook hands with Constance. She had no recollection of meeting her.

  Behind her, Mma Makutsi cleared her throat politely. There was a further introduction, after which Dr. Marang said, “You are the secretary, Mma?”

  It was politely meant, and Mma Makutsi understood that. She also understood that these were not circumstances in which a sharp correction would be justified. She tried to smile, as if what had been said was a matter of little importance. “Actually, I am joint managing director,” she said. “There are two of us.”

  Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. Joint managing director was a new title—a step further than the directorship that Mma Makutsi had claimed last time her status had needed to be explained to anybody. But if Mma Makutsi sensed the importance of this moment and the courtesy that should be shown to their visitors, so too did Mma Ramotswe; any discussion of roles in the agency was private business, not to be aired in front of others, and particularly not in front of this distinguished and much-loved doctor.

  Mma Ramotswe invited Dr. Marang and Constance to sit down. The client’s chair was already in place; Mma Makutsi quickly fetched for Constance the spare chair that was kept behind the filing cabinet. Tea was offered, and accepted, and then, with Dr. Marang settled, Mma Ramotswe began the interview.

  “It is very good to see you, Rra,” she said, adding quickly, “and you too, Mma. I did not know at first that it would be you.”

  Dr. Marang nodded sagely. “And I did not think—even just a few months ago—that I would be sitting in the offices of a private detective. We cannot tell what is going to happen in our lives, can we?”

  “We cannot, Rra,” agreed Mma Ramotswe.

  Dr. Marang looked thoughtful. “Nor, I think, would your late father have imagined that his daughter would end up in a No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “He certainly would not, Rra. He always thought I should run a hardware store if I went into business. Hardware stores are very sensible.”

  Dr. Marang seemed to appreciate the humour of the situation. “I’m sure he would have been happy. He was always very proud of you, you know.”

  Mma Ramotswe swallowed. It was hard, sometimes, when people spoke of her father; they always said good things—nobody to her knowledge had ever spoken ill of Obed Ramotswe—but it was still hard, even after all these years.

  It was as if Dr. Marang had read her mind. “You must still miss him,” he said. “Even now.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.” She could have said so much more. She could have said what she said to those who had lost somebody: Late people are still with us. And they were. They were with us in the things that they had said, which we remembered long after they had gone; they were with us in the love that they had shown us, and which we could still draw about us, like a comforting blanket on a cold night; and, if the late people had had children, they were with us in the look in the eye of those children, in the way they held their heads, in the way they laughed, or in the way they walked, or did any of the other things that were passed on, deep inside, within families.

  She did not say any of this, although she was thinking it. She answered, instead, what he had said about pride. “I am the one who was proud,” she said quietly. “I am the one, Rra.”

  “I can see that, Mma,” said Dr. Marang. “But let me tell you what I have come to see you about. You are a busy lady, I think, and we should not take up too much of your time. Let me start.”

  The kettle that Mma Makutsi had switched on was now boiling, and she busied herself making tea. Dr. Marang had difficulty holding his, and was helped by his daughter, who dabbed carefully at his mouth with a handkerchief after he had taken a sip.

  “I’m afraid I’m rather slow,” said Dr. Marang between sips. “Perhaps Constance can tell you what you need to know.” He turned to his daughter. “You tell the ladies, Constance.”

  Constance spoke softly, in a strangely high-pitched voice, rather like the voice one would expect a bird to have.

  “My father has been retired for some years,” she began.

  “Fourteen years,” supplied Dr. Marang.

  Constance resumed, “Yes, fourteen years. He left Mochudi years before that—he went to Lobatse, to the hospital down there. You probably know that, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “I knew you had gone away,” Mma Ramotswe said. “You left before my father became late, I think. But I wasn’t sure where you had gone.”

  “It was Lobatse,” said Dr. Marang, “as Constance just said. But, when I finished working there, I came back to Mochudi. I had a small plot of land where we grew vegetables. We kept goats—some very good ones. And I ran a small clinic—just two days a week—for minor conditions. It was a retirement job, really—nothing more than that. But it kept my hand in.”

  “My father is not a lazy man,” said Constance. “He does not like to be doing nothing.”

  “If you do nothing, you die,” said Dr. Marang.

  Mma Makutsi had been silent until then, but now she had an observation to make. “Doing nothing is a big mistake,” she pronounced. “Do nothing and you’ll find yourself doing nothing in the graveyard.”

  Constance looked slightly confused. Dr. Marang, though, turned in his seat and nodded his agreement. “You are absolutely right, Mma. That is what I always said to people who were thinking of retiring. I said: Don’t do nothing. Keep yourself busy.” He paused, and then urged Constance to continue.

  “So my father was living just outside Mochudi and then one day…” Constance looked down at her hands, her voice faltering. “Then one day he was crossing the road that passes our house and a car appeared from nowhere and knocked him over.”

  Mma Ramotswe winced. “Oh, Mma…”

  “It was going too fast and it didn’t stop,” Cons
tance continued. “It was what the police called a hit-and-run. My father had two badly broken legs and a fractured hip. And there was damage to his face, to his head. You can see that, Mma Ramotswe.”

  Dr. Marang intervened. “I already had a condition,” he said. “I had something called Bell’s palsy, Mma. It made my face slip rather badly. But then this accident involved further injuries, and the result is as you see. I would not get a job in the films as a result…”

  “Oh, Rra…”

  He laughed. “That doesn’t matter at my stage in life. But the other injuries were very debilitating. It was a long time before I was able to walk again.”

  “And he still cannot walk far by himself,” chipped in Constance. “He needs me—or somebody else—to help him.”

  “I am very sorry to hear all this,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Did they catch the driver?”

  “That is why we are here,” said Constance. “The police could not find out who was driving the car. They made some enquiries, but they have more serious things to deal with and so they have moved on. They are not doing anything more.”

  Dr. Marang said that he did not blame the police. “They have too much on their plate,” he said. “They cannot devote too much time to finding out who was driving that car.”

  “They should,” said Constance indignantly.

  Dr. Marang laid a hand on her arm. “Hush, Constance. We cannot blame them. It is not their fault. If the government took on more policemen, there would be the resources for this sort of thing, but even the government can’t do everything it needs to do.”

  “We want you to find out who that person was,” said Constance, her voice raised. “We want a private investigation.”

  Her demand made, Constance sat back in her chair. As she did so, she fixed Mma Ramotswe with a challenging stare. Her father, though, was more cautious. “That is,” he said, “if this is the sort of thing you do. I don’t know.”

  “They are private detectives, Daddy,” snapped Constance. “This is what they do.”

  From behind them came Mma Makutsi’s voice. “Yes, we do that sort of thing. We help people with all their problems, you see—no matter what the problem is.”

  Mma Ramotswe inclined her head in Mma Makutsi’s direction. “What Mma Makutsi says is right. We do not turn people away…although this sounds like a very difficult matter, I think…”

  “Not difficult,” said Mma Makutsi. “We can make enquiries.”

  Mma Ramotswe was concerned about raising expectations. In different circumstances she would have reminded Mma Makutsi of what Clovis Andersen had to say on that. Do not promise the client anything that you cannot deliver, he wrote. A disappointed client will not thank you for promising a result you cannot achieve. Be realistic.

  “As Mma Makutsi points out,” said Mma Ramotswe evenly, “we can make enquiries. But I must stress that there are many cases when, however much we enquire, we cannot get to the bottom of things.”

  “Not many cases,” retorted Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Ramotswe shot her a glance. “But some, Mma. Some.”

  Constance had something more to say. “We need to be able to claim against the insurance of that driver,” she said. “We have had to pay for a nurse. That costs money.”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she understood that.

  “We can, of course, pay your fees,” said Dr. Marang. “I am not a poor man. I have a good pension.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. There was an immediate decision to make, and it was clear to her what that should be. “There will be no fees in this case, Rra. That is what my father would have wanted—and it is what I want too.”

  Dr. Marang was insistent. “No, I must pay.”

  “No, Rra. There will be no fee.” She paused. “But, as I said, it may be that we can find out very little. Did you see the driver?”

  Dr. Marang shook his head. “No, all I saw was his car. And all I remember about it was that it was blue. That is the only information I have.”

  “Not even the model?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  This was met with a shrug. “How can anyone tell modern cars apart these days, Mma? They are all the same. It was just a blue car.”

  Behind them, Mma Makutsi scribbled a note on a pad of paper.

  “We shall do our best,” said Mma Ramotswe. It was true—they would do what they could, but there was something in her tone of voice that was doubtful. This was not the sort of enquiry they were used to, and she had no idea how they might proceed. How many blue cars were there in the country? Not as many as there were white—by far the favourite car colour in Botswana—but how could one establish which of these many thousands of blue cars had been on that road at that particular time? As she thought about this, Mma Ramotswe realised the magnitude of the task she had taken on. It seemed impossible, and she was not surprised that the police had been unable to do very much. They were also doing their best, but if they could do nothing with all their resources—hundreds and hundreds of police officers throughout the country—how could a tiny firm like the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, with its two full-time ladies, its young man Charlie who was half junior, untrained detective and half unqualified mechanic and its part-time assistant-detective-cum-chemistry-teacher Mr. Polopetsi—how could such a small concern as that solve an issue concerning which the police had drawn a blank? Of course she had to help Dr. Marang—it was inconceivable that she could turn down an approach from a man like that, a doctor who had been widely appreciated by people in Mochudi, a kind and honourable man who had known her father, a man of the generation that had built Botswana and made it the fine country that it is. She could never turn such a person away; never. She would have to do something. But right at that moment she had no idea at all as to what that could possibly be. Would Mma Makutsi have any idea? she wondered. Her joint managing director had been quick to say that it would not be difficult, but had she thought about it before she reached that conclusion? Mma Ramotswe thought not.

  Dr. Marang looked at his watch. “I have another appointment in town,” he said. “And we have taken up far too much of your time, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “You have not, Rra,” she reassured him. It was typical of people of her father’s generation, she reflected, that they should be apologetic about making demands on people. They had always made their time available to others, had been uncomplaining about what was expected of them, but never thought of their own entitlement. It was so different now, when everybody was so keen on what they could get out of others; when everybody felt no compunction in making shrill demands for more of everything: their rights, their due, their legitimate expectation. Of course people had rights, of course they were entitled to something, but what about giving back? Who spoke about that, and, if they did address the subject, who was there to listen to such voices? What about thinking of what you could do for others rather than what others could do for you? Who would say anything about that?

  Perhaps the answer to that was closer than Mma Ramotswe expected. “Our time is yours,” Mma Makutsi contributed from the back of the room.

  Constance looked at her appreciatively. “Thank you, Mma,” she said, adding, “You must find that person. He cannot be allowed to get away with it. You must find him.”

  “We shall,” said Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe could not help herself—she sighed. She would need to talk to Mma Makutsi.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHAT THE SHOES SAID

  MMA RAMOTSWE might have felt that she would need to talk to Mma Makutsi, but there was another matter waiting to be aired. That conversation would not be a difficult one for Mma Makutsi, although for Mma Ramotswe it would be slightly harder, which was why she waited until the next morning to broach the subject, although, as she put on the kettle and opened some letters, looking somewhat anxiously at her watch, she wondered if she might have to wait even longer.

 
Life had been going well for Mma Makutsi. As a general rule, she was not one for excessive reflection—she prided herself on being a doer rather than a ditherer, a distinction based on another of her magazine articles, Are you a doer or a ditherer? Fill in our questionnaire below and find out the truth about yourself! She had complied, and had been pleased to discover that she was in the top two per cent of life’s movers and shakers, as the magazine labelled this privileged group. She had taken to using the expression, mover and shaker, not in any self-congratulatory way, but referring to others whom she had identified as being in the same category. Mma Ramotswe had noticed this, and had passed what Mma Makutsi considered a slightly less than helpful comment on how, while she could see how movers could be helpful, shakers could just get in the way with all their shaking. “Do we need these people to go round shaking things all the time? Or is that how they walk, Mma? Shaking, or even quivering?”

  Mma Makutsi had smiled tolerantly. “They do not shake themselves, Mma. You must not take these things too literally.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I had an aunt who used to shiver a lot. She was always shivering if the tiniest cloud appeared in the sky. She would shiver and say, Here it comes. The cold weather is upon us. It never was, though, because Botswana is a warm country, after all.”

  Mma Makutsi had repeated that shaking was an attitude, rather than a physical matter.

  “Just as well,” muttered Mma Ramotswe. “What would happen to Mr. Polopetsi if somebody started to shake him? You know that he’s slightly built, Mma. He would not cope with being shaken too much—or at all, really.”